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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384473">Don't Stop Me Now</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss'>little_abyss</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle'>ponticle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Wastelands [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Concerts, Established Relationship, F/M, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Multi, Music, implied domestic abuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:07:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,425</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384473</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After the funeral, Dorian joins Anders and Isabela in the studio to record a new track for their upcoming benefit concert. It doesn't go exactly as planned.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Various/Background Relationships</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Wastelands [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/533875</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Don't Stop Me Now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is the result of little_abyss tasking me (ponticle) with writing something in the Wastelands universe, beginning with the opening line you'll see below. </p><p>...we didn't know how to get this into the series without adding a co-author, so this story is actually by me, written in my interpretation of the Wastelands style; aby gave it a stamp of approval to be part of the canon. :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~~~</p><p>“Are you regretting your decision?” she asks, brows lifting. “Because you can still back out. You’re an asshole if you do, but you <em> can </em>.”</p><p>Dorian considers. He isn’t used to Isabela being righteously indignant; that’s usually Anders’ tack, but everyone is different now.</p><p>“Is Merrill coming today?” he asks, deflecting.</p><p>“No,” Isabela answers.</p><p>They’re silent for a minute. Dorian pulls on the mic stand absently, adjusting cords, and catches his reflection in the glass of the booth. He looks tired. In the aftermath of Tal’s death, everyone looks a little like that — Anders more than most. It’s in the slump of his shoulders, the grayness of his skin, and that look behind his eyes; Dorian thinks he’s almost as dead as Tal. </p><p> </p><p>Dorian isn’t sure if it’s the reminder of his <em> own </em>death that is making him want to run — facing mortality. He sighs at himself and blinks.</p><p>“I’m not going to back out,” says Dorian, finally. “I wouldn’t do that.”</p><p>Isabela nods, but she doesn’t look like she believes him. She’s skeptical as a matter of course.</p><p>“Besides, this is important to me… preventing the next generation from ending up like us…” muses Dorian. </p><p>Isabela snorts. “You <em> are </em> the next generation.”</p><p>Before Dorian can think of a suitable retort, the studio door opens with a crack — its hinges are slightly misaligned. The sound is more startling than Dorian expects it to be. Anders is at the head of the pack.</p><p>“Doing okay?” Isabela asks. Her expression goes dark when she sees him, head lowered, looking like he hasn’t eaten in a week. Knowing him, he <em> hasn’t </em>.</p><p>“Fine,” he barks. “Everything set back there?” He gestures vaguely to the booth.</p><p>“Yup…” She quickly moves to stand behind the glass and begins to fiddle with the knobs — an idiotic demonstration of preparedness.</p><p>“Good…” He takes a few steps closer to the glass and cocks his head to the side. “I wanted to make sure we were good to go, what with Dorian here.” He looks pointedly at Dorian and smirks. “Wouldn’t want him getting all hot and bothered.”</p><p>Isabela’s mouth curls at one end, but she doesn’t laugh. Neither does Dorian. It feels wrong to seem even transiently <em> happy </em>in the aftermath.</p><p>The silence that follows is something Dorian has little experience with. It belies the heaviness they all surely feel. When he was younger, Dorian might have shrugged it off — laughed and flirted and drank heavily — but none of that seems like it will help in light of the way Tal died and the ripple effect it has had on the community. Retrospect is sometimes a curse. In fact, the only reason that Dorian is here now, trying to collaborate with all these people, is Tal. His life and death have spurred a tremendous outpouring from the fans. Of course, they’re not <em> all </em> here; one person is conspicuously missing. Fenris hasn’t made an appearance since the funeral. One gossip site reported he’d been seen leaving the country — boarding a private plane with someone young and anonymous — but Dorian doubts that’s true. The only thing he knows is that he isn’t here.</p><p>Anders begins to unpack and, when he seemingly can’t stand the silence, he looks up at Dorian. “Well…? How are you, Mr. Farenheit?” </p><p>“Keeping warm,” jokes Dorian. “And you?”</p><p>“I’m always cold; you know that.” </p><p>Dorian watches the mimed laughter play across Anders’ face and wonders how he’s managing to go on. During these last few months, Dorian has begun to make some plans — plans that were spurred by the idea that Anders’ life isn’t the same as it was. Dorian hears Bull, then, reminding him that Fenris’ life isn’t the same either — Bull cares about fairness in a way that Dorian can’t fathom, but admires. <em> Well, less, though, </em> argues Dorian. Bull rolls his eyes. </p><p>Anders squints. “What?”</p><p>“Oh.” Dorian realizes the daydream has made him smile and puts a hand reflexively to his mouth, as if to wipe the expression away. There’s no space for joviality here, he thinks.</p><p>“Are you gonna just stand there all day or what?” Anders reiterates. </p><p>Dorian shakes his head and tries not to resent the idea that he’s still a novice in Anders’ eyes  — that he probably always will be. He resents the feeling inside himself even more-so. </p><p>“We just need to get the initial tracks laid today,” says Isabela over the speaker. “If you two can manage to sort yourselves out more than that, it’s a bonus.”</p><p>“Yup,” says Anders, pulling his guitar strap over his head. “Let’s get going. Nobody wants to be here all day.” </p><p>He laughs, but it’s mirthless. Dorian can’t imagine where else Anders would <em> want </em> to be. Where does he have to go now? </p><p><br/>~~~</p><p><br/>Despite Dorian’s best efforts, <em> everything </em>about this turns out to be difficult. The idea of this track is to have something to release ahead of the benefit concert they’re putting on in Tal’s honor. This has to perfectly encapsulate what the show will be about — the combination of talents they’re bringing together and the tone they’re trying to set. It’s a lot of pressure, really, and Dorian knows he’s up to it, but he starts to doubt that Anders is, only half an hour into the session.</p><p>“Fucking shit,” Anders shouts. He grasps at his throat, and growls out a semitone in an utterly different key than the melody he’s supposed to be recording. Dorian cringes. There’s only one thing worse than seeing someone accidentally sing off-key: when they <em> know </em> they’re doing it. </p><p>“Come on, Love,” coaxes Isabela from behind the glass. “You’ve got this. Let’s just go again…”</p><p>Dorian notes that although Isabela is saying nice words, her tone is off — she might as well be hurling insults.</p><p>“I’d like to see you come out here and do this…” snaps Anders. He runs a hand over his face and exhales wetly into the skin. “I need some air.” He grabs his coat, suddenly, and bolts — throwing his hair back in a flourish of visual punctuation. </p><p>It’s then that Dorian chooses to do something he finds vaguely insane, even as it occurs to him to do it. He decides to follow Anders outside. </p><p>Standing against the building, head cast down and a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth, Anders looks the picture of gauntness and misery in equal measure — a cautionary tale to anyone who would choose performance as a life. </p><p>Dorian shivers. “Hey…” he says, cautiously. </p><p>Anders doesn’t look up, but he shrugs in a way that Dorian takes to mean it’s safe to approach.</p><p>“I, uh… was wondering if there’s anything I can do to help make this process easier…” Dorian says. He’s couching what he really means to such a large extent that it barely resembles the original sentiment, but he thinks Anders will get it. ‘<em> What is happening to you; do you want to talk about it?</em>’</p><p>“No,” says Anders flatly. </p><p>“Okay…” Dorian takes in a breath, ready to be more direct, but Anders interrupts him.</p><p>“Listen, I know you’re trying to help… but… I just need a minute…” Anders looks down at the ground so intently it looks like he’s trying to burn a hole in it with his mind. Dorian wonders if he <em> will </em>, actually. In thinking about the sparks that could ignite from the cracks in the sidewalk, Dorian hesitates. </p><p>“I’m <em> serious </em>. Get out of here,” Anders adds.</p><p>“Oh. Sorry…” Dorian pushes himself away from the side of the building with effort and feels the heel of his boot scuff against the concrete. Something intrinsic doesn’t want him to leave — there’s something here he needs to say. Something like, <em> I remember — heard you with Fenris… after the funeral... and where is he now? </em>He wants to commiserate — to mitigate the abandonment that he imagines Anders feels.</p><p>Instead, he follows direction and slinks back inside, down a dirty hallway and around the corner to where Isabela is frustratedly playing the tape back to herself, swearing quietly under her breath. Dorian realizes that no matter how old he gets, he’s always going to see Anders as a mentor — albeit a reluctant one — and that it is perhaps even more strongly than Anders will see him as a novice.</p><p>“What’s he doing?” Isabela doesn’t look up to address him; her tone is flat, and because Dorian is already in the mood to fight — already uncomfortable and twitchy — he snaps.</p><p>“Do you actually care?” he asks.</p><p>Now, Isabela <em> does </em> look up, like a puma, ready to pounce at even the slightest change. “What does that mean?” she asks slowly.</p><p>“The last time we talked, you weren’t exactly team-Anders,” Dorian blurts.</p><p>“Grow up.” Isabela takes three steps away from the mixing board and plants her feet like she’s readying for a fight. “There aren’t teams, you ass. Someone’s dead.”</p><p>Dorian considers. For the first time today, he notices a flickering blue-green light in the left hand corner of the room. Its pallor makes the lines around Isabela’s eyes stand out — a reminder that no one is young forever, that we’re <em> all </em>vulnerable. He finds his fingers tracing the edge of his jaw automatically. </p><p>The silence grows as Isabela stares at him. He imagines that she’s assessing the thousands of ways she could kill him silently before Anders comes back. Of course, it would be an admirable death; he’d die in Anders’ defense, but no one would be here to witness his intentions. <em> What good are intentions, really? </em> Dorian wonders.</p><p>“Get the fuck out of here,” says Isabela finally.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“This is enough. I’ll talk to Anders — just come back tomorrow morning and be ready to <em> not </em>be an asshole.” She says, suddenly rushing to coil stray cords and shut down equipment. Then she pauses, turning to look Dorian straight in the eye. “Unless you want to take me up on my earlier offer?”</p><p>Dorian shakes his head. He wants to yell that he’s been <em> trying </em>to help all day — he hasn’t done a goddamn thing to exacerbate this situation, but she seems to have with her tone and utter lack of loyalty, from his perspective — but he doesn’t say any of that. It won’t help.</p><p>“Fine. See you tomorrow.”</p><p><br/>~~~<br/><br/></p><p>DORIAN: hey. are u around?</p><p>BULL: for a second. what’s up?</p><p>DORIAN: ...had a shitty day.</p><p> </p><p>The phone rings in Dorian’s hand. </p><p>“Hi. Thanks for calling,” he says.</p><p>“Yeah, a’course.” Bull clears his throat. “What’s happened?”</p><p>“Well, I started working on that collaborative project today, as you know…” Dorian fiddles with the hem of his shirt. The whole thing feels as uncomfortable to explain as it did to live. “It just went totally wrong — Anders <em> can’t sing </em>anymore...and… I think it’s a function of misery.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yes… well, I mean, <em> of course </em> he’s miserable…” Dorian pauses, trying to think of how to explain his position.</p><p>“...and you have feelings about that?”</p><p>“Yeah, I do.” Dorian sighs. “I just… don’t know how he’s going to get on now. You know those couples where one dies and the other one drops dead like less than a year later?”</p><p>“Yes, but that’s not the situation Anders is in,” interrupts Bull. </p><p>Dorian rolls his eyes; he knew Bull would make this argument. “Yes… I know… but Fenris isn’t exactly stepping up to the emotional support plate here.”</p><p>“How do you know that?”</p><p>“Well…” but Dorian stops himself. <em> He doesn’t </em>. </p><p>“You need to stop making assumptions about how other people live — you aren’t the arbiter of what’s right, you know.”</p><p>“If I wanted a lecture, I would have called my parents, Bull…” </p><p>Bull laughs, deep and rumbling. “You’re a good person Dorian, don’t get caught up expecting everyone to be as good as you are all the time.” </p><p>Dorian feels himself smile. “Thanks…” he feels his cheeks flush and clears his throat. “I’m just saying… it feels like Anders is bearing this alone. He won’t even talk to Isabela, really.”</p><p>“People have their own ways of grieving, you know,” says Bull quietly.  “...and their own <em> timelines </em>.”</p><p>Dorian nods, although Bull can’t see him. They’re silent for a minute, breathing across the crackling phone line, oceans apart. </p><p>“If I died, would you marry someone else?” asks Dorian. He expects Bull to laugh — <em> they </em>aren’t married, but Dorian feels like they are… in his heart... but Bull doesn’t laugh. Instead, he takes a long, laborious-sounding breath and then clears his throat. </p><p>“I wouldn’t stop <em> living </em> if you died, Kadan… but I would not be with anyone in this way again,” Bull says quietly. “You’re <em> it </em>for me.”</p><p>Dorian sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and bites it. He’s in the habit of trying to suppress about half the tears he produces these days. That’s better than it used to be — when he suppressed them all. </p><p>“You’re it for me, too, Amatus,” he whispers.</p><p>They sigh as one. </p><p>“I’ve gotta go…” says Bull eventually. “I’ll call you tonight… tomorrow… you know what I mean…”</p><p>Dorian laughs, “fucking time zones.”</p><p>“Yeah, fuck them.”</p><p>“Goodnight,” says Dorian.</p><p>“Good morning,” says Bull. </p><p><br/>~~~<br/><br/></p><p>In the morning, before Dorian’s eyes have completely cleared from sleep, he pulls his phone up to his face. Without his glasses on, he can barely see it until it’s less than a foot away. He expects it will be Bull — he always texts before he goes to bed. It’s a small thing, but something Dorian counts on… consistency that makes him <em> sure </em>.</p><p>And it’s there: the text he’s expecting.</p><p> </p><p>BULL: heading to bed. Gonna be a long few days until the benefit… see you in 8. &lt;3</p><p> </p><p>Dorian smiles up at the text. He’s even got Bull using whole sentences — not just emojis; that <em> must </em>be love, mustn’t it?</p><p>Upon further inspection, though, there is another text waiting for him. It’s from just a few minutes ago.</p><p> </p><p>ISABELA: meet me for coffee? Corner of Lincoln and Lex.</p><p> </p><p>Dorian thumbs the screen away, but keeps staring. <em> What could she want </em> ? He debates whether or not he should go. <em> Sorry, overslept. Gotta rush to the studio. </em> Would that be seen as a slight?</p><p> </p><p>DORIAN: Ok. Give me a few to get myself ready and I’ll be there. K?</p><p>ISABELA: Yup.</p><p> </p><p>The coffee shop is small and unassuming — dirty, if Dorian is honest, but it certainly smells good. He sidles up to the counter and orders a cappuccino while he waits. There’s no sign of Isabela yet. The usual suspects are there, though — a guy in a beanie, working on his screenplay… a woman looking out the window like she’s far away… an asshole talking on his cell phone loud enough for everyone to hear. In the midst of them, Dorian is at home — he’s always been comfortable with social anonymity. </p><p>“Hey!” shouts someone. </p><p>Dorian blinks, looking up. It’s Isabela.</p><p>“What are you doing?” she asks.</p><p>He shrugs, still startled by her demeanor.</p><p>“Sit down, okay?” She pulls a chair back from a near-by table. It scrapes against the floor piercingly. Dorian winces at the sound. It’s almost as bad as yesterday’s recording fiasco. He can still hear the dissonance ringing in his ears as he sits.</p><p>“He can’t sing,” says Isabela, suddenly.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Not a note,” she adds. “Not since Tal died.”</p><p>Dorian thinks of a string of vaguely idiotic responses: ‘<em> I’m so sorry,’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Has he seen a doctor?’ , </em>but says nothing.</p><p>“Every time he tries to practice… every time he even sings in the fucking shower it sounds like he’s being strangled,” Isabela explains.</p><p>Dorian tries to suppress a facial expression that means, <em> How do you know what happens while he’s in the shower? </em> Luckily, Isabela hasn’t really looked at him while she’s been talking. She almost seems like she’s explaining it to someone else — to someone neither of them can see, to <em> Tal </em>, maybe.</p><p>“...I mean, he’s like a goddamn lovebird,” she continues, gesturing into the air between them.</p><p>“He lost his mate and can’t sing?” asks Dorian.</p><p>Isabela laughs and rolls her eyes. “Can’t? Or <em> won’t </em> — he’s acting like he’s the only person on earth who’s sad Tal’s gone…”</p><p>“Are <em> you </em>sad?” blurts Dorian. </p><p>Isabela squints at him piercingly, but does not answer. “All I’m saying is that we have to get him to bow out of this concert — let him play guitar, fine… but don’t let him sing.”</p><p>“So when you asked if I wanted to back out, you actually hoped I’d say yes? Cancel the whole thing?” asks Dorian.</p><p>Isabela shrugs. “Nothing so nefarious.”</p><p>It certainly seems like that to Dorian, though. It seems like she wanted an out and was too much of a coward to ask for it. Nevertheless, he stays quiet. In the past, he might not have, but he remembers Bull, <em> stop making assumptions about how people live </em>. It’s one of those annoying things Bull says that Dorian is trying to live by because he knows deep down that it’s wise — true.</p><p>“Just… help me out here, ok?” asks Isabela, finally. She shrugs into it, which is the least aggressive thing Dorian has seen her do — possibly ever. “Anders needs help and… no matter what we’ve been through together, I keep trying to help him — maker knows why…”</p><p>“Fine…” huffs Dorian. “What do you want me to do?”</p><p>“Talk to him — before the session today.”</p><p>Dorian nods.</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>When Anders saunters up to the studio that afternoon, Dorian has already been standing outside for an hour, looking like he’s just arrived. He’s been going over the words in his head to the point where he can see them in bold typeface. </p><p>“Hey,” says Anders. He looks like he’s in a better mood than yesterday, for which Dorian is grateful. He doesn’t entirely trust it, though. “Is the door locked?”</p><p>“What?” stutters Dorian.</p><p>Anders looks pointedly at the doorknob and his brow knits, implying, instantly, that Dorian must be a moron if he hasn’t tried it. </p><p>“It’s open; I just got here,” says Dorian. </p><p>“Okay… then…?” Anders gestures impatiently.</p><p>“I — was hoping we could talk, actually,” says Dorian, straightening against the rigidity taking hold in his chest.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Well… uh… yesterday,” he begins, “was a bit tough… and I just wanted to offer — in case you were feeling like this whole thing was too close to home for you — I could…”</p><p>Anders glares.</p><p>“...only if it would be helpful…” continues Dorian. He’s losing his nerve, though. The look on Anders’ face tells him he should <em> stop </em> talking.</p><p>“Did Isabela put you up to this?” asks Anders, suddenly.</p><p>“What? No…” lies Dorian. “Of course not…”</p><p>Anders laughs suddenly, a smile flitting across his face, and pushes his hand through his hair. “She doesn’t think I can tell that she hates my guts now…” </p><p>“What?” stammers Dorian. “I don’t think it’s that…”</p><p>Anders shakes his head, still laughing. “It is. She’s made her position pretty clear… it’s fine. I probably deserve it.”</p><p>“If that’s true, then what’s she doing here?” asks Dorian. </p><p>“She’s checking up on me — for Fenris.”</p><p>Dorian didn’t expect that. He bristles. Even as he’s been arguing for Isabela’s lack of guile, he has also been replaying their last conversation in his head — her anger, the way she acted like Fenris was somehow wounded in this whole scenario.</p><p>“Are you sure?” asks Dorian.</p><p>Anders raises an eyebrow and lands jerkily against the building next to Dorian. “Yes… I know her… I know them both.”</p><p>“Well, why does she need to check up on you? Why can’t Fenris just <em> ask </em> you?” </p><p>Anders shakes his head. “You’re acting like that’s easy.”</p><p>“It is.” Dorian regrets the tone — he hates to sound self-righteous, but he <em> believes </em> that: asking isn’t only easy; it’s essential.</p><p>“Well, it isn’t for Fenris; you’d know that if you knew anything about him,” says Anders coolly.</p><p>Dorian nods; he knows he’s not going to win this argument. He’s ready to concede. He pushes away from the building and reaches for the door handle. </p><p>“But…” adds Anders, catching Dorian by the forearm. “I used to feel like that about Fenris, too... before I knew better.”</p><p>Dorian squints, searching Anders’ face for meaning, but he can’t find the words to ask — maybe Fenris is right about asking… at least when it’s Anders who needs to be asked. </p><p>“C’mon. I’m gonna do better today,” says Anders, dropping Dorian’s arm. “And if I don’t, you can take over; I promise.”</p><p><br/>~~~<br/><br/><br/></p><p>“Hi Bull, it’s me,” says Dorian into the camera of his phone. “I mean, obviously…” [beat.] “I just… thought I’d make you this video since I’m probably not going to have time to talk when you wake up. I tried; I just couldn’t make it work with the schedule. I know you don’t mind, but <em> I </em> do — I hate it when we don’t get to talk.”</p><p>Dorian smiles into the periphery beyond the phone. He’s remembering a time a few weeks ago when Bull finally admitted that his day is better when he gets to talk to Dorian. It makes Dorian’s chest feel tight to think about it — Bull, who doesn’t need <em> anyone </em>, choosing him. </p><p>“Anyway, I just wanted to give you an update on the situation here…” he begins again. “Anders is doing better; in fact, I think he’s going to be all right by the time we get to the actual benefit… well… I don’t want to get ahead of myself… but at least for this track…”</p><p>Dorian sighs, feeling the nervousness build as he thinks about the concert.</p><p>“I miss you; have I mentioned that? It’s horrifying… the whole thing… but take care of yourself and we’ll talk soon. Text me. Love you.”</p><p>He stops recording and looks at the video. Usually he watches everything he sends at least once beforehand, but it feels inauthentic. He’s trying to get out of the habit, actually, so without any hesitation, he sends it. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, if you’re finished, I could use a drink,” says Anders suddenly. He’s over Dorian’s shoulder — Dorian hopes he hasn’t been there for too long. “Are you game?”</p><p>Dorian hesitates. He’s of two minds about it. On the one hand, Anders was an idol of his — probably always will be — but on the other, he feels like their relationship may have been irrevocably strained… first by the funeral and now this. </p><p>“C’mon, one drink,” adds Anders. “Bel’s in too, right?” He turns to Isabela and she nods perfunctorily.</p><p>Dorian thinks of going home and missing Bull — the thing that always happens when he’s alone, no matter how long they’ve been together. He hates it. So, even though he’s wary of Anders — his unpredictability — he agrees.</p><p> </p><p>~~~<br/><br/></p><p>“I just don’t get it…” slurs Isabela. </p><p>“What?” asks Anders. He blinks at her — eyelids not quite in sync.</p><p>Dorian wants to chime in, but he missed whatever they’re talking about; he hasn’t been this drunk in years. Even as he’s trying to remember what his vision is <em>usually</em> like, he’s pre-regretting the way he’ll feel tomorrow. If that isn’t a sign of maturity, he doesn’t know what is.</p><p>“Tal’s dead and we’re all supposed to be sad…” continues Isabela. “We’re all here to… do… what? Pretend none of us dies?”</p><p>Anders squints at her and leans into the table. His elbow drops into a pool of condensation and he looks at it with confusion. Still, he doesn’t move away from it, Dorian notices.</p><p>“What the fuck are you talking about?” he manages, finally.</p><p>“I don’t know…” Isabela shrugs and rolls her eyes. “I mean… I’m gonna die; aren’t you?”</p><p>Anders’ jaw flexes. There is a tense moment of silence while they stare at each other. Then Anders growls. “<em>Fuck </em> you, Isabela.”</p><p>From where Dorian is sitting — between them at the small, round table — it’s impossible to look at them both at the same time, but he can feel the fury beginning to pour from them, even without seeing it. It’s a little like having dinner with his parents; he’s suddenly ten-years-old and scared — <em> sure </em>he’s the reason they’re so angry. </p><p>“What?” Isabela goads. “Are you suddenly immortal?”</p><p>Anders leans in further, a threatening look in his eyes, and says quietly, “Tal was <em> twice </em>the person you’ll ever be.”</p><p>Isabela almost gasps, but stops herself midway and relaxes her face into a dead expression.</p><p>“<em>My </em> partner’s dead,” adds Anders. “Fine, okay… but Merrill is <em> out there </em> somewhere, isn’t she? But you’ve not said a word about her… we haven’t heard anything... why do you think everyone leaves you, Isabela?” He pauses, glaring. “I mean, come on! You <em> never </em> put her first… she could only play the devoted lover for so long… now she <em> sees </em>you for who you are…”</p><p>They stare at each other, teeth ground together and breath coming in short, angry spurts.</p><p>Suddenly, Isabela laughs. “Yeah, <em> fine </em> . Okay, Anders… take it out on me… god knows I’ve been your <em> punching bag </em> before.”</p><p>At that, Dorian turns his head to look at her straight on. When he sees her expression, he feels cold. What on <em> earth </em> could that mean? Although neither of them has addressed Dorian directly in this argument, she seems to see him looking and she turns, wildness in her eyes. </p><p>“Shocked?” she asks venomously.</p><p>Dorian’s tongue feels paralyzed — a sopping sponge in his inoperable mouth.</p><p>Isabela waits for him to answer for longer than he expects, but when he still can’t — when his alcohol-addled brain can’t form the words quickly enough — she gives up with a loud tisk and stands from the table, pushing the chair back roughly enough that it scrapes against the floor. </p><p>The bar turns in unison to look at her, uncomfortably shifting in their seats, but she hasn’t looked away from Dorian — her jaw flexed and face ashen. “For all he cares about the world, he has very little regard for individuals… especially the ones who tried to help him.” Then she turns, as suddenly as she stood, and walks out the door; she doesn’t look back.</p><p> </p><p>Anders doesn’t say anything for a long time; neither does Dorian. There are so many questions, but Dorian isn’t sharp and he doesn’t know how to ask. </p><p>“Don’t worry about her,” says Anders finally. </p><p>Dorian blinks. Anders is looking down into the bottom of his empty glass. </p><p>“She’s just angry.”</p><p>“It seems like she might have reason to be,” blurts Dorian.</p><p>“Fuck if I know…” mumbles Anders. “We were all different then… drunk and angry and unpredictable.”</p><p><em> Excuses</em>. <em> Only a guilty person needs excuses </em>.</p><p>Dorian’s stomach churns. He almost asks the question, almost demands an explanation, but instead he rises. “I’ve gotta go. See you.” </p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>“Pick up, pick up, pick up… <em> pick up </em>…” Dorian drums his fingers against the nightstand table while the phone rings in his ear. </p><p>“Hello?” growls Bull. </p><p>“Hi,” says Dorian breathlessly. </p><p>“Are you ok?” asks Bull. “What time is it?”</p><p>“Uh… I dunno — 2? I’m sorry for waking you up…” adds Dorian. “I wasn’t sure you’d hear the phone.”</p><p>“You’re my emergency contact; it always rings…” answers Bull. His voice is gruff with sleep, but he doesn’t sound angry. “So… what’s wrong?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>A thick silence crowds the line. Dorian knows it as preamble to an emotionally difficult conversation. </p><p>“I think Anders is —” he cuts himself off.</p><p>“Is what?”</p><p>“I don’t really know… but… he isn’t who I thought he was.”</p><p>“Ahhh,” says Bull. “Your hero disappointing you again? Was he off-key today, too?”</p><p>“No,” answers Dorian seriously. “Nothing like that. He was a lot better, actually… it’s… I think I know why Isabela suddenly hates him.” He pauses, trying to think through the last vestiges of drunkenness. “Remember how I told you she was <em> different </em> at the funeral? She was there for <em> Fenris </em> — only…?”</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>“And this week, she tried to get me to back out of this whole thing…?” adds Dorian. “She’s been really on-and-off about Anders… here, but angry…”</p><p>“Yeah…” says Bull, thoughtfully.</p><p>“Well, I’ve been trying to wrap my brain around that ever since… because when I first figured out about Tal and Fenris…”</p><p>“...when you were <em> judging </em>them?” adds Bull, with a small laugh.</p><p>“I wasn’t judging; I was disappointed…” corrects Dorian. He <em> knows </em>it’s the same thing, but he won’t say that aloud — not right now.</p><p>“Yeah…okay...anyway...”</p><p>“So back then, Anders and Isabela were something, too, remember? …and I knew they fought a little, but… I always thought it was their <em> way </em>— a kind of dance, with only kindness at its core…” explains Dorian. “But something happened, I think…”</p><p>Bull makes a sound, halfway between questioning and understanding.</p><p>“I think he hit her.” </p><p>Dorian stops talking. The words seem to be choking him.</p><p>“I think… I think he didn’t <em> mean </em>to… or maybe he did… but what does that matter, anyway?”</p><p>Dorian hears Bull say that good intentions aren’t worth shit, although he doesn’t <em> actually </em>say anything. He’s said it so many times before, that neither of them needs the repetition. It’s then that Dorian realizes…</p><p>“Hey, Bull? You… <em> We… </em>we get each other, right?”</p><p>Bull makes a sound like he’s going to speak, but Dorian keeps talking.</p><p>“I mean, we don’t always<em> agree </em> … but… we know each other… we <em> see</em>?”</p><p>“Yeah, a’course we do.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>“For <em> that</em>. It’s… It’s more unique than I realized…” </p><p>“Nothing’s really unique, Kadan,” says Bull gently, “but I know what you mean... Are you gonna be all right?”</p><p>Dorian shrugs, although Bull can’t see him. “I think so…”</p><p>They’re quiet again, breathing together.</p><p>“I love you,” says Dorian.</p><p>“Love you too.”</p><p> </p><p>~~~</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Flight 382 to Minrathous is about to begin pre-boarding for those passengers with children under two. If you need to gate check a stroller or oversize carry-on bag, please approach the podium. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dorian stands, pushing the handle into his rolling bag and clicking it into place. He finds it hard to remain seated in the waiting area, no matter how many times the gate agents recommend that. Besides, he’s sitting in seat 2C, he’ll board first. </p><p>His phone buzzes in his pocket for the fifth time since he went through security. He considers ignoring it, like he has been all morning, but this time he decides to look at it, just in case it’s Bull wishing him a good flight. </p><p>It isn’t, though.</p><p> </p><p>ANDERS: I get why you think you have to do this, but it isn’t what you think. We were all drunk last night. Let’s finish this and then we can talk…</p><p>ANDERS: This isn’t about us. It’s about Tal…</p><p>ANDERS: And the foundation…</p><p> </p><p>The ellipses of typing show up and disappear several times while Dorian watches, but nothing else comes through and he deletes the text, moving to Bull’s text chain — the long thread he hasn’t deleted for as long as he’s had this phone. </p><p> </p><p>DORIAN: Plane is on time. I’ll see you tonight. Love you.</p><p>BULL: Can’t wait. &lt;3. </p><p>…</p><p>BULL: You know, I think you’re doing the right thing. </p><p> </p><p>Dorian smiles at the phone, a little sadly.</p><p> </p><p>DORIAN: Thanks. Feels shitty, but thanks.</p><p>BULL: Heroes aren’t really a thing, you know. They’re just people.</p><p>DORIAN: I’m learning that. It sucks.</p><p>BULL: It doesn’t mean the way they made you feel counts any less, though.</p><p> </p><p>Dorian starts to type a glib response, but erases it. Bull’s <em> right </em>; he knows it.</p><p> </p><p>DORIAN: I think <em> you’re </em> my hero.</p><p>BULL: lol, please don’t say that.</p><p>DORIAN: I mean it.</p><p>BULL: I know you do… but how about you just let me be your partner… I’m fallible, and I want you to see that now, before I disappoint you.</p><p>DORIAN: I do see it; and I’m not disappointed.</p><p>BULL: Thanks. I think you might want to re-frame all this, though.</p><p>DORIAN: oh?</p><p>BULL: Yeah… I think the things you idolize about other people are just things you can’t see in yourself.</p><p>DORIAN: What do you mean?</p><p>BULL: You’ve always thought Anders was so creative, so nurturing, such a good partner… but… <em> you’re </em> all those things.</p><p> </p><p>Dorian’s lips part in surprise. His eyes scan the room reflexively, as if someone will be <em> out there </em> to confirm his worth… </p><p> </p><p>DORIAN: Dear maker, I love you.</p><p>BULL: :) Be safe on the way home, okay?</p><p>DORIAN: I will. &lt;3</p><p> </p><p>Dorian picks up his bag, boarding gate ahead, and takes a deep breath. The song will come out in the next few days — finished as it can be, and rather good, if he’s honest — and then the concert will happen, and people will wonder ‘where’s Dorian?’ and papers will speculate… but he won’t feel sad. That part of his life is over. It’s time to be his own hero. </p><p>
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</p><p>THE END</p><p>
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